“So, how is the Effexor working for you?”

“Good. I feel great. Thanks for calling that in.”

“No problem. You look chipper this morning. I’m glad its working for you.”

“Yeah, because things were fine during my pregnancy then the anxiety started coming back full force.”

“That can happen.”

“Now things are much clearer. For example: before I was on Effexor I thought that my boss was rolling his eyes at me everytime I asked a question.  Now I realize that he wasn’t rolling his eyes at me. He just looks up when he thinks.”

(Silence) “Hmmmmmm.”

I admit it. I’ve never liked to wear revealing clothing, even when I was young and had a tight bod. I’ve also never liked to look at people in revealing clothing.

In high school, when you possibly could get away with it, you were probably a “trailer park whore” if you wore anything more revealing than the average cheerleading outfit. In college, if you showed off the goods, you were a druken sorority slut. Now, in my 30s if I see a woman my age or older dressed in something that came from ANY TEEN SECTION, I cringe and my toes curl up and I grit my teeth a little.

I know there are plenty of women out there who have had several kids and are still a tight bodied size 2 or 4 and can actually fit into teen clothing. That does not mean that you should wear teen clothing, ever. You are fooling no one. You do not pass for a 16 year old at 36. No one is confused.

The other day I was at Chipolte standing in line behind a woman and her teenage son. The son looked like your average snow boarding/ skate boarding Colorado teen. His mother (though very small in frame) looked like she kidnapped his girlfriend, disrobed her, shoved her in the basement and took her clothing to wear on their outing. It was disturbing. It didn’t take more than one look to see the woman was pushing 40.

When you are 38, you should never shop at Forever 21, Pacfic Sunwear, Abercrombie…etc. EVER. Don’t show me your low rise, thong exposed backside. Don’t wear XS baby tees. Don’t wear leather jewery from Hot Topic. Just don’t you crazy sicko! You may have been a young mother once, but you’re not the 17-year-old baby mamma now, so grow up, throw out the teenager clothing and go shop somewhere like Coldwater Creek or Talbots. Stop buying anything at Guess. I mean it. Stop it. You make my eyes bleed.

Now that Zach’s been crawling all of one week, he refuses to be confined by anything that kept him in place last week. No longer will he suffer the restrictions of the high chair, the crib, the Exersaucer, the pack-and-play, etc. He is mobile now, duh, and needn’t be burdened by staying one place.

All the sleepless nights, the changing of diapers and the attempts to stop the crying were all just practice for what real parenting involves. The real job of parenting involves being the road-blocker, the kill joy and basically acting as “the man” to stop the whims of the baby mind now able to control the baby body.

I actually force Zachary to stay on his back, on the changing table for three minutes while I change his diaper. For this injustice, I am a wicked, wicked woman.

This morning I also committed a crime worthy of screams as if I pulled his arm out of his socket. I did the unthinkable. I would not let him splash his hands in the dogs water dish. Could a mother be more cruel?

Its only been one week. He’s managed to find everything in our house that he can’t have and he’s only really explored one floor. He’s found dog toys, the dogs have found his toys, they have attempted to work together to swap toys. He’s chewed cords, eaten decorative grass, found the one vent in the house that’s sharp, climbed on foot rests, triggered office seat lifts, and unscrewed drain caps and door bumpers.

Now my job is to be the Taskmaster, The Gate Keeper, the one who says “Stop pulling yourself down there or you’ll leave a mark!” I am the buzz kill, the narc, the grand scheme stomper…for the next 19-24 years. I am a parent. God help us all.

I wonder if its just me, but I’ve always thought it was a crime for adults to collect children’s toys and keep them in their original package, tucked on a shelf, never to be seen again. I thought that someone should pull those toys off a shelf and give them to a child to play with, in the spirit of the Seinfield episode with the 30 year-old Easy Bake oven mix.

On the flip side, as a parent, it can be very easy to have the idea that toys you played with as a child might be interesting or cool to your child. I know people who have found their old toys or better preserved versions of the toys they played with as a child and gave them to their children. Thus sharing your childhood with your child. Aaah. Memories past and future. Wrong.

It just is a bad idea and I’ll tell you why. I almost got trapped into this idea because of that evil electronic flea market. I’m sure you may know which one I refer to.

At first, it was harmless, I was mostly interested in seeing if the toys I played with as a child were available from the strange collector people. My first find was one of my first dolls “Baby come back.” Pictured below.

See, isn’t she cute? You wound her arms around and she toddled back to you. My son might find her slightly amusing….

Then I found my first Star Wars toy.

A face only Han Solo could love? Man, that doll was ugly.

I also found an “old school” Strawberry Shortcake.

I forgot she’s dressed like Holly Hobby. I hate to admit it, but she did need a make over. The new dolls are much cuter.

Then I found the Fisher Price “People” dolls. As a child I spend many days playing with these toys and the barn, club house and play house. Much to my surprise these are the biggest dogs of all my old toys. I might as well have played with cut up pieces of Lincoln Logs. They have no arms or legs. What strange little peg people.

So, the lesson is learned. Nostalgia aside, most toys do not age well. In addition, my 25-year-plus memory of these items was quite flawed. Kind of like, how, as a child you remember your grandmother’s old house being huge, but when you see it as an adult you realize its just a matchbox sized Bungalow. Buy new toys for your kids. The old ones probably don’t pass safety regulations now days anyway.

Of course if I was to give my son the actual toys I played with, this is what I would end up giving him:

Three creepy, disembodied doll heads would be all that is left of my childhood toys. There were four kids in our family. The toys were played with hard with little or no reguard for their future electronic flea market resale. Hopefully that is all my son will have left to pass on to his kids…because that’s the way it should be.

I am no longer a virgin to blogging. This is my first blog. How exciting. And like many first times, this blog will be short and anti-climatic.

My page blog is very girly. I am not a really girly, girl but ever since I got a pink razor and became outnumbered by boys in my house by having a son, I think, “Up with pink.” I’ll just go with it.

Pink needs to be reclaimed. Power to the pink. It is the color of the female. There is nothing wrong with being a girl. Of course, little boys still seem to think so. I read an article recently where the majority of cartoons still revolve around male main characters. Young boys are so affected by this, many of those studied refuse to watch a cartoon with a female main character. Sad.

So there it it. The first blog. Was it good for you? I can honestly say, it wasn’t life changing for me either.

So…the weather has been nice here in Denver and they just finished a little park near our community. I remembered it had two baby swings so I thought I’d pack Zach up and take the stroller to the park.

When I got there a mother, a father (?) and their young child were using one of the swings. I took Zach out of the stroller and started pushing him in the baby swing. I noticed she was a young mother and I remembered that my friend (who was a young mother) said she always got the cold shoulder from older moms. So, I made an effort and said, “Hello.” We started chatting and she said, “How old is your son?” I told her, “Seven months.”
“Oh, my god! My son is seven months too, but your son is huge. What a fat baby!” She replied.

Oh…no…she DID NOT, just call my baby fat! I said nothing and nodded. The nerve! He’s 28 inches long and filled out, but I wouldn’t call him fat. Besides, aren’t babies suppose to be chubby? Unless they are crack babies or you limit the amount you feed them, a la Anna Nicole Smith. Note to mothers, don’t call people’s kids fat. I don’t care if the kid looks like Spanky on the last season of “The Little Rascals.” Just keep it to yourself.